


i want to kiss like my heart is hitting the ground

by buskuta



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, that's all, this is a sin and a half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25753180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buskuta/pseuds/buskuta
Summary: "Unlike Eliza’s hand on his body just a week ago, which was firm but soothing, Laurens’ grip invokes something from the depths of his heart that he’s tried to bury for years."Or: Laurens stays with Hamilton during the summer of Say No to This.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	i want to kiss like my heart is hitting the ground

**Author's Note:**

> this is... yeah. i wish i could say i'm sorry, but i'm really not.
> 
>  **edit 26/08/2020:** considering deleting this fic off my account; if you want to download or archive it then i recommend doing so soon!

There’s nothing quite like summer in the city. The towering buildings of New York trap the air and make it impossible to breathe. Humidity clings to skin like watertight clothing and sweat drenches through clothes like river water. And yet somehow, summer in New York City is still remarkably breathtaking.

“Jesus – Alexander, it’s stifling in here.”

The sudden darkness that envelopes the study pulls Hamilton out of his work abruptly. He flails, unseeing, for a brief moment before his eyes adjust and he makes out Eliza carefully closing the curtains on the window.

“The open window was just bringing in heat,” she says. She turns around to look at him. “How were you even breathing?”

“I got used to it,” Hamilton says. He glances down at his papers, the writing invisible in the dark. “I need the window open to see.”

Eliza walks over to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been working since breakfast. Angelica will be here in a few hours; go get ready.”

Hamilton stares at the papers on his desk. Or rather, at where they’re supposed to be. He can’t see anything in the pitch blackness, but he knows that his incomplete debt plan stares back at him tauntingly. “I still have to –“

Eliza squeezes his shoulder once, firmly. Hamilton doesn’t have to have light in the room to know that she’s glaring daggers at him. “Alright.”

Hamilton gets changed into more formal clothing, fixes his hair, tries not to fixate too much on the dark circles hanging prominently under his eyes as he stands in front of the mirror. He’s tired. He hasn’t gotten an eight hours’ sleep in weeks, drafting and editing and redrafting different economic strategies until the sky turns violet and rays of sun begin to shine through the window. It’s not as though he wants it like this, as though he wants to avoid his family, to only crawl into bed at four in the morning and hear his children ask where their father is in the afternoon. What he’d give to hold Eliza until she falls asleep, to play checkers with Angie and listen to Philip sing in French and play the piano. But if can’t get his debt plan through, Jefferson will call for his removal, Washington will have no choice but to let him go, his legacy will fall before it even got to fly –

Not an option.

He goes back into his study and works until the doorbell rings and he hears shrill voices downstairs.

He’s halfway down the staircase into the foyer when Angelica spots him, already making her way over. “Alexander,” she says, smiling at him. She looks nearly identical to when he last saw her six years ago, except her hair is tied up and the crow’s feet around her eyes are more prominent. That’s what happens with age, he supposes, and it’s not like he looks any better, if the last time he looked in a mirror is anything to go by.

He reaches the base of the staircase, pulls her into a hug. “Hi,” he murmurs into her shoulder.

She pulls away, takes him in, cups his cheek with her hand. Her smile grows softer. “It’s good to see your face.”

“You’ll be seeing him plenty once we get to the lake house,” Eliza says, Angie hoisted on her hip. “I’m not letting him hide away in the bedroom up there like he does here.”

Hamilton frowns, gently taking Angelica’s wrist and taking her hand off his face, holding it in his larger one. “I told you I can’t come upstate.”

Angelica places her hand over his, looking at him imploringly. “I came all this way, Alexander,” she says, and the disappointed look in her eye, Eliza’s lips parted in surprise and dejection – they’re upset, and it makes it that much harder for Hamilton to say no.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it’s more than an apology: it’s an offer, a nonverbal plea of _let’s not part on bad terms_. “You know I have to get this plan through congress.”

Angelica opens her mouth, clearly about to protest, when there’s a knock at the front door. Hamilton exchanges a surprised glance with Eliza – they weren’t expecting anyone else, were they? – and lets go of Angelica’s hands to get the door, half expecting the mailman, half expecting Jefferson on the other side with a letter of requested resignation in his sleep deprived state.

He opens the door, and John Laurens is standing on the other side.

It takes a moment for Hamilton to realize who he’s looking at, and then he barks out a surprised laugh. “ _Laurens_.”

Laurens grins, pulls him into a hug in the entryway. “Alex,” he breathes into his ear. The nickname slipped easily off his tongue from years of use, like a worn pair of shoes or a shirt that’s been owned for years.

Hamilton lets go and leads him into the foyer. Laurens still has an arm around his shoulders, and Hamilton can practically feel his shoulders relax underneath it, the tension physically draining out of his body.

“John!” Eliza says brightly when she sees them. Angie squirms out of her arms, and she and Philip are latched around Laurens’ leg before he can greet Eliza.

Laurens lets go of Hamilton to wrap his arms around Philip and Angie before picking Philip up against his hip. “I was wondering where you guys were!” he says enthusiastically, ruffling Angie’s hair.

“Uncle John, did you bring us presents?” Philip asks.

“Philip!” Eliza scolds. “Don’t be rude.”

Laurens laughs. He leans down a little and picks up a large paper bag, handing it to Angie. “Of course I did,” he says, and puts Philip down so that they can rummage through the bag.

Hamilton takes in Laurens as he steps around the children to greet Angelica and Eliza. He only saw him a few months ago, in the dreary tail end of winter in March, but Hamilton can still notice the subtle differences about him: his hair, though still kept tied, is now far past his shoulders; his freckles more prominent than they were in the winter, thanks to the summer sun in South Carolina; and, most notably, the pronounced muscles of his broad shoulders shifting underneath his shirt, his body still in perfect shape despite the physical trials of the war being long since over.

He watches appreciatively as Laurens’ arms, biceps prominent though lax, delicately wrap around Eliza’s body in a hug. His hands, broad and smattered with freckles, pressed against the small of her back, the veins in his backhand pronounced appealingly. And as Laurens places a chaste kiss on Eliza’s cheek, Hamilton feels a familiar want that he’s tried to suppress for years flare hotly in his stomach – one that he felt all the time while watching Laurens write essay after essay during the war and while hiding in a trench with him and while sharing a tent with him, their bodies pressed so closely together at night to keep warm that Hamilton could feel his eyelashes flutter against his shoulder.

“Mr. Senator,” Hamilton says to Laurens as he pulls away from Eliza, “what are you doing in New York?”

“Senate meeting at the end of the month,” Laurens says. “It’s for the immediate emancipation bill.” He grins. “How’s the debt plan coming, Mr. Secretary?”

Hamilton glances at Eliza, who is watching him carefully. “It’s coming.”

“John,” Eliza says before the silence can grow tense, “please, you must stay here with us while you’re in New York.”

Laurens’ cheeks tinge pink as he glances between Eliza and Hamilton. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask –“

“No, this is good,” Eliza says decidedly, linking her arm through his and leading him into the dining room. Angelica and Hamilton follow close behind. “Angelica and I are taking the children upstate for the summer, and I’d feel much better if someone was here to keep Alexander company.”

Laurens glances behind his shoulder at Hamilton. “What, you’re not going upstate?”

Hamilton doesn’t dare glance at Angelica beside him. “Gotta get my debt plan through.”

Dinner is a happy affair. Laurens sits between Hamilton and Angie. Conversation flows easily and without force, and Hamilton only had to scold Angie once for attempting to fling a bit of mashed potato off her fork at Philip from across the table.

“Alexander,” Eliza says, “you and John must leave the house while we’re gone. I won’t let you be holed up in here all summer.”

Laurens laughs. “Don’t worry, Eliza, we’ll be sure to get out a little bit.”

“Not just to work,” Angelica warns. “There’s much more to see in New York City than just the White House. There’s Central Park that you can tour…”

“And that lovely little museum that just opened up a few blocks from here,” Eliza adds.

As Angelica and Eliza discuss sight seeing destinations, Hamilton feels a foot tap against his underneath the table. He wants to believe it’s Angie, accidentally knocking her tiny foot into his, but the touch is heavy and deliberate, and he know that it’s Laurens. His shin is exactly as he remembers it, when their legs would entangle in their narrow bed during the war, when Laurens would wrap his leg around Hamilton’s waist, when he would pull him close –

Laurens carefully wraps his leg around Hamilton’s under the table. “I’m sure we can think of a few things to do,” he says.

The week after Eliza and the children leave goes by in a blur.

Hamilton hardly sees Laurens. He stays in his study for most if not all of the day, re-evaluating his plan and writing correspondences to Congress. He only sees Laurens when he comes into the study to bring him supper or water when Hamilton forgets to get it himself.

Dim moonlight floods his study on Sunday night when Laurens comes in. “Someone was at the door,” he says.

Hamilton tears his eyes away from his paper to look at him. “Who was it?”

“A woman. Said her name was Maria. She asked me to walk her home.”

“Did you?”

“Of course I did,” Laurens says, a little indignantly. He steps closer to Hamilton.

Hamilton stands up and begins rearranging the papers on his desk. He doesn’t really want to clean up; he works most effectively in clutter, but he has to keep himself occupied with Laurens alone in a room with him, and Laurens is standing incredibly close to him. “I would have walked her home myself, but…”

“I know,” Laurens says. “I would have come to get you, but I don’t know how you would have reacted to my disturbing you.”

Hamilton feels a swell of irritation rise in his chest. “My job is on the line, can you blame me?” No one seems to understand that if his plan fails, his _career_ fails. Jefferson will boot him out of office so fast that he won’t even have time to write a proper letter of resignation, and no one seems to realize that. He’s doing his best to build a country that his children and their children can have, but he can’t do that if he’s no longer Treasury Secretary. “What else am I supposed to do?”

Laurens takes another step closer to him. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Are you going to keep working, or are you going to come with me?”

Hamilton glances down at his papers. The words blur together incoherently. Laurens places a hand on his shoulder, and chills run up and down his arm and through his back. Unlike Eliza’s hand on his body just a week ago, which was firm but soothing, Laurens’ grip invokes something out of the depths of his heart that he’s tried to bury for years. Something hot that makes his insides coil when he spends too long looking at Laurens. Something that sends the beating of his heart down to his loins when Laurens looks at him like –

Exactly like he’s looking at him now.

There’s nothing the soft moonlight in the study can do to lighten the look on Laurens’ face. His dark eyes glitter like silver in a black cave, his lips parted just slightly as he stares at Hamilton intensely enough to set him on fire. He's all too aware, suddenly, of how close Laurens is to where he’s standing, how his hip grazes his side. He instinctively looks down, away from Lauren’s gaze to his rock-hard body underneath his shirt, to his sharp hip against him, to the space below his breeches, and he’s immediately overwhelmed with a desire he’s suppressed for years. He looks back up and Laurens’ eyes are trained on him still, and he wants…

He wants.

He reaches up just as Laurens leans down, and their lips meet straight-arrowed like missiles deadlocked on each other’s heads.

Laurens leans forward and braces his hands on the desk behind Hamilton, enclosing him between Laurens and the tabletop. Hamilton puts his hands behind him on the desk to keep his balance, then wraps them around Laurens’ neck. Laurens’ lips are warm and chapped, but his tongue is wet as he traces it in the gap between Hamilton’s lips, and he wastes no time opening his mouth to let Laurens in. Hamilton runs his tongue along the roof of Laurens’ mouth and feels Laurens’ own tongue slide hot and slick against his teeth. Every which way that his tongue touches his mouth sets his nerves on fire. Hot chills explode from his face and run electrifying across his body. Laurens’ tongue holds every phrase, every endearment, every word that he’d ever muttered to Hamilton – when they whispered to each other in their tent in the depths of the night, when they held each other and confessed their love and their sins and their tears in the trenches, when they screamed in undignified euphoria at each other and to the sky when they saw each other after the war for the first time. Laurens’ tongue holds all of it, and every time it touches Hamilton’s tongue or his molars or the inside of his mouth, Hamilton sees their past selves kissing behind his eyes, in every moment that they talked to each other, in every moment that they ever uttered a word to the other. He sees them kissing every time, and right now, nothing feels more right than that, than _this_.

Laurens slides his leg between Hamilton’s, his thigh pressing against the growing bulge in his pants, and Hamilton moves his lips from Laurens’ down to his chin, sucking on the skin before running his tongue along Laurens’ jawline until he gets to his neck. He suckles more than kisses his neck and his Adam’s Apple as Laurens pushes his leg against his crotch, harder and harder until Hamilton feels like the hot coil in the pit of his stomach will explode.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Laurens breathes as Hamilton continues leaving sloppy kisses all over his neck.

“I’ve waited,” Hamilton says, lifting his mouth off Laurens’ hot, sweaty skin, “so long for this.” And then he’s running his tongue down Laurens’ neck to his collarbone, drags his hands down Laurens’ sides as he crouches down on the floor in front of him. Laurens sets his hands down heavily on Hamilton’s shoulders as Hamilton undoes his breeches and pulls them down –

Laurens’ cock, hard and upturned, slaps against his stomach. Hamilton has never seen something more beautiful. He’s seen Laurens nude before, of course, but that was during the war, in a cold tent as they hurriedly changed, their bodies turned away from each other for modesty’s sake and half-cast in shadow. As Laurens takes his shirt off, Hamilton knows that this is the first time he’s ever been able to take in all of Laurens, appraise his body appreciatively without the judgmental eyes of their comrades.

Hamilton holds Laurens’ cock in his hand, and before he can think twice, he’s wrapping his lips around it and pumping its length. There’s a thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, trapped and muffled by the dopamine filling his head like high cotton, that he’s never fucked a man before, and the first time he bobs up and down is apprehensive from lack of experience. But Laurens feels _good_ in his mouth, and somehow, he tastes just like his lips and his neck and his collarbone, and he instinctively speeds up, eager to take as much of Laurens in his mouth as he can.

Laurens moans, running a hand over Hamilton’s scalp before gripping the ends of his hair. “Please,” he says hoarsely as Hamilton swirls his tongue over the tip of his cock. Hamilton grasps Laurens’ waist as he sucks, and it’s heaven, Hamilton thinks blissfully as Laurens sighs in appreciation. Having Laurens here, with him, _in_ him – there’s no other word that can describe this perfection other than a heaven on earth.

He doesn’t know how long he has Laurens in his mouth. Time stopped the second they kissed, and the only reason he knows that they’re not frozen in space forever is because of his rhythmic bobbing around Laurens’ cock.

Then Laurens comes, sweet and salty, and Hamilton swallows all of it as it runs down his throat and tangs his mouth, but he loves it. It tastes nothing like Laurens, nothing like his skin or his freckles or his cock itself, but somehow it _does_ , somehow it is him, and Hamilton sits back as Laurens pants, wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, and relishes knowing that a part of Laurens is inside of him still.

Hamilton closes his eyes, feels cool nighttime breeze blow softly on his face through the open window, listens to the crickets’ chirping outside, their constant buzz a white noise in the aftermath. He didn’t even come himself, but he feels as though he’s in a post-orgasmic haze as Laurens sits down heavily next to him, and Hamilton leans against his shoulder as they both catch their breaths.

In the crook of Laurens’ shoulder on the floor of the study, Hamilton thinks about what just happened. He knows he should be ashamed, for a number of reasons – he just committed sodomy, after all. He and Laurens could be hanged if anyone found out. But after kissing Laurens, after putting him sacredly in his mouth, after willingly taking a part of him inside of himself, Hamilton feels remorse for not having done it during the war and directly after, for not having done it again and again and again. He’s always wanted to take Laurens like that and more, but this is the first time that he’s even admitted that to himself. And if he’s wanted this all along, if he’s lusted for Laurens like this for so many years, then couldn’t it be said that he’s been committing sodomy this whole time? Are the action and the desire really so different?

And of course, there’s Eliza. His dear Eliza. He loves her, he knows he does, and she’s never failed to satisfy him like this – he’s given her children, after all. But the way that he feels with Eliza, holding her hand or kissing her cheek or putting himself inside of her – the things that he feels in the moment of those actions, he feels with Laurens all the same. How can two different people make him feel the same way?

Hamilton suddenly feels overwhelmed with exhaustion, and he remembers that he hasn’t slept in nearly days. He sits up, looks at Laurens, who’s staring out the window absently.

“Want to go to bed?”

Laurens looks at him, startled, then grins. “If I’d known that sucking my dick was all it would for you go to sleep, then we would have had sex a long time ago.”

Laurens buttons his breeches and they leave the study and go into Hamilton’s bedroom. Hamilton falls on top of the bed, allowing gratefully sleep to take him. The last thing he sees before closing his eyes is Laurens lying down next to him.

When Hamilton wakes up, it’s light outside. The air is warmer through the opened bedroom window and there’s dew on the tree leaves. He slept through the whole night.

Last night hits him like a train. He remembers, vividly, Laurens coming into his study, Laurens kissing him, Laurens’ cock in his mouth, and he shudders as the pleasure comes back. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he feels little shame.

He changes out of last night’s – _last night_ – clothes and heads downstairs to the kitchen, where there’s a pile of mail on the counter and Laurens flipping eggs on the frying pan.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and wraps his arms around Laurens’ waist from behind.

Laurens turns around and tilts Hamilton’s chin up. He smiles. “Hey.”

They kiss, then. It’s different from last night’s kiss – last night’s was desperate and fast and greedy, while this one is softer, slower, more tender. It’s different from last night, but still just as incredible, still sends chills down Hamilton’s body, from his lips to his fingertips to his toes.

Laurens pulls away. “Sit,” he says, half turning back to the stove. “I’m making breakfast.”

Hamilton sits down at the table and sorts half-interestedly through the mail: bills, mostly – there’s a letter from President Washington regarding the debt plan, which sends a wave of anxiety through Hamilton that he chooses to ignore; there’s a letter from John Adams wishing he and his family a happy summer, which will go directly to the trash; the only one that catches his eye is an envelope titled _Mr. A. Ham_ with no return address. Curious, he opens it and reads the letter inside.

_Dear Sir,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in a prosperous enough position to put wealth in the pockets of people like me, down on their luck: see, I was subjected to watching you –_

“Fuck,” Hamilton says.

Laurens turns around, spatula in hand. “What is it?”

Hamilton stands up and hands him the letter, pacing back and forth across the kitchen as Laurens reads it.

“He saw us having sex?” Laurens says finally, his voice a mixture of shock and confusion and concern. “How?”

Hamilton scrubs a hand over his face. “I left the window in the study open.” He wishes that he’d listened to Eliza.

Laurens sighs, sits down in a chair with the letter. “This guy – James Reynolds, he’s going to tell Eliza _and_ the authorities if we don’t pay him.”

Hamilton takes the letter from Laurens. “I know,” he says. He skims over it again. “Look, this is – don’t worry. I’ll pay him whatever amount he wants.”

Laurens frowns. “Alex,” he says, “sex is a two way street. It wouldn’t be fair for you to just pay him.”

“Look at the envelope,” Hamilton says. He reaches across the table to take it and shows it to Laurens. “It only has my name on it. If he knew who you were, he’d address the letter to both of us. He doesn’t know who I was having sex with, but he will if we both pay him off.” If Laurens pays too, James Reynolds will know who both of them are. Not only will their careers be in jeopardy, but if Reynolds goes to the police, he can give Laurens’ name as well, and then they’ll both be hung at the gallows.

Laurens seems to realize this too, because his lips press into a firm line. “Fine,” he says finally. “But if he tries anything, you have to come to me, okay? It’s his word against ours, we can… we can do something. But you have to come to me first.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “Yes, okay.”

Laurens nods decisively, and they eat breakfast in silence. Hamilton begins crafting his response to James Reynolds in his head. He’ll pay him quarterly, probably, but it’s better than being tried and hanged for sodomy. And even if Reynolds goes back on his word, there’s no chance in hell that Hamilton will bring this to Laurens. If he does, it will just raise more suspicion, and then Laurens will be hanged too, and Hamilton will be damned before he’ll let that happen. But Reynolds obviously wants the money, or else he would have gone to the authorities by now. As long as he pays Reynolds, he’ll keep quiet, and nobody will have to know.

**Author's Note:**

> congratulations, you made it to the end. oral sex aside, this obviously isn't my best writing. anyway, thanks for sinning with me.


End file.
